


Fallen Soldiers: Shattered Gestalt

by agiftedmind



Series: Fallen Soldiers [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers Generation One, Transformers: The Headmasters
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agiftedmind/pseuds/agiftedmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of losing his Gestalt members, a choice is made that will see the start of an odd working relationship between Sinnertwin and Sixshot.</p><p>(Part of 'The way of your World!Verse'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the hardest to rewrite; the original was good, but it didn’t quite fit with what I had in mind for the overall collection of stories. Having the Headmasters DVDs on hand helped.

Sixshot sighed as he looked at the two headed dragon. Tan-yellow jaws were still clamped around the remains of an arm, teeth working into the metal as if were a teething-ring, and if Sixshot didn't know better, the noises coming from his companion could be called moans.

Sixshot wasn't about to step in if they were. Sinnertwin was happy, _stable_.

It been maybe three vorns at best since the rest of the Gestalt had been lost. Since he'd almost lost Sinnertwin in the aftermath of that disastrous mission. Had opened up the still raw wound losing Danny had left. _Weak_ , his mind had called him, to distress over the death of a Nebulon _pet_. He'd taken it – him – on in the middle of a war. Of course he'd lose the critter – humanoid.

At least Danny had died swiftly.

Sixshot forced it out of his processor. Here and now mattered. He could still lose the dragon. Sinnertwin's mental state was fragile. The move to split them up had been foolish, but at the time they'd had _no choice_ ; none had been happy and Hungrr had fought it tooth and claw. Megatron had done it anyway because that was what war _was_. You followed orders you hated, you obeyed, and you prayed to Primus you lived to see the next sunrise. The result of the battles that day had cost the Decepticons one of the most devastating units on the battlefield: Abominus.

(Sixshot often wondered if Megatron was _still_ reeling from the loss of His Prime. Of the Guard Not Being There. He didn't voice it though. He had no desire to be scrapped just yet, or thrown about like Starscream. Slowly driven to insanity.

But the signs were there. Sixshot _feared_ for the day Megatron realised _what_ had happened.)

The day Abominus had fallen had won them ground overall, but the _cost_...

He couldn't forget even if he wanted.

* * *

Sixshot crouched as he cleaned his weapons off. The hilt of the Great Sword was stained dark-pink-purple, yet the jewel and blade shone to a polished perfection. Not far away, Sinnetwin's alt mode happily tore into on the remains of Autobots littering the battlefield, greedily gulping down energon or fluids without a care. Sixshot thought it feral, but who was he to deny the Terrorcon? Hungrr and Blot did far worse.

The Great Sword sung as he returned it to its place on his back, and moved on to cleaning the rest of his weapons.

Then the dragon's first head jerked up, optics wide with alarm, energon dripping from its mouth. The second head joined it soon enough; all four optics swirling a pained white, tinged with yellow. Claws dug into the ground as his EM-field flared, screaming the glyphs of horror-pain-loss.

A split second later, twin shrieks hit the air as the dragon dropped, writhing in pain, claws digging into the ground. A terrifyingly sparkbreaking snarl followed, optics dropping to sickly, unstable yellows. The aperture was wider than it had any right to be. The dragon staring at Sixshot.

It lunged.

Sixshot stumbled back, though recovered quickly and threw his leg out in a kick that drove the Terrorcon backwards. He backflipped away, face and 'field echoing confusion.

"Sinnertwin?" The only reply was a snarl as the dragon lunged again. Sixshot twisted out of the way, sensors locked on the other Decepticon. This was Odd. Sinnertwin had no reason to attack him. Not since that first, accidental meeting that had gained him a fanclub.

/Hungrr-/

His comlink meet with static. Attempts to reach the others resulted in the same.

Sixshot's optics narrowed and battle mask snapped into place. Well. This was _just_ his bundle of _luck_. He'd heard stories about broken Gestalt-links and how they drove the poor fraggers mental with the backlash. Monstructor and Piranhacon were prime examples. If the rest of the Terrorcons had passed to the Junkyard –

His hand shot out, deflecting Sinnertwin's attack yet again as the six-changer twisted around again, sidestepping the next attack, but not with ease. Sinnertwin was smaller and the other knew it. Sixshot knew he needed to remain alive to disable the fragger, but not kill him. A selfish desire perhaps, but he _wasn't_ keen on losing one of the last links he had that kept him from joining the Reapers.

Easier said than done, given Sinnertwin only seemed to see enemies.

Oh well.

Sixshot had worked with less favourable odds. He'd once been Gigatron's bodyguard, and was a Phase-Sixer, one of the few who could take on mechs like Dai Atlas, Yoketron, Esmeral, Megatron, Overlord, Tarn, Krok. Or even Ultra Magnus, Strafe, Scorn, Huffer or Jazz. 

Didn't mean he'd just stand there and allow the dragon to attack him though. He grabbed the two headed creature in a choke-hold, grunting when Sinnertwin headbutted him, horns puncturing armour, but nothing vital. Sixshot rolled with it and seemed to shake it off. He shoved him away, lashing out with a roundhouse to the chest. Unfortunately, the dragon just went with the kick, using its momentum to lash out with his tail. Sixshot grunted, barely able to jump over the tail while avoiding the snap of jaws from the right head. There was no rhyme or reason to the attacks. They came in bursts and sometimes Sinnertwin would back off, whimpering as his optics flickering red before returning to the yellow state.

He's confused, Sixshot realised. Confused, in pain, hurting. It'd be kinder to kill him-

Sixshot shoved the idea away. He had precious few friends. He wasn't going to mercy kill one of them. A selfish, _selfish_ want, but he couldn't do it. He doubted many could actually kill a friend. For as brutal as they were, Decepticons clung to what they could.

But, Sinnertwin needed to be stopped. Emotion shoved down, sealed under lock and key, Sixshot dove head first into war-programming. He was a STAG warrior; a weapon _and_ unstoppable machine. Sinnertwin came at him yet again, teeth sinking into metal. Sixshot pulled his fist back and smashed it into the head while it was holding onto him. When the crazed Terrorcon drew back, he grabbed one of the necks and squeezed, aiming to choke off the air flow. The other head didn't seem to know what to do.

Sixshot's smile was grim as he squeezed tighter, willing Sinnertwin to _yield_.

Sinnertwin lashed out with a yowl of pain/fear, seemingly uncaring of the damage done to him as long as he could inflict pain on his tormentor.

Ahh slag. Primus _hated_ him. So it was going to be the _hard way_? Fine by him. When the left head came in for another attack, he grabbed it, claws sinking into the optics as he used momentum to shove the smaller forward. But Sinnertwin was no pushover, and when he couldn't get free of the hand blinding him by struggling, he tried transforming.

Sixshot let him, knowing the damage to the optics would translate to one of the root-mode optics. A handy, if not annoying, feature of bestial modes. Yet Sinnertwin was barely in root-mode before he was slammed face first into the dirt of Animatros, Sixshot landing heavily on top of him. While Sinnertwin struggled to get free, Sixshot pulled an energon knife from subspace and jammed that into a shoulder with a brutal twist.

The Ninja took no joy or pleasure from the yowl of pain, nor the way his friend struggled to get him off. His only aim now was to force a shutdown from overheating. Hopefully that would give the broken links _a chance_ to scar over. Well, that was the _theory_ based on the fiasco when Skalor had offlined. But that had been only one mech, and the Seacons were still around. How _sane_ they were was anyone's guess and only the strongest of mechs poked that scrap pile, if simply to keep an optic on them. The less said about Monstructor the better.

Sinnertwin had lost his whole Gestalt. _Realistically_ , he'd likely need to be put down.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the frantic struggles eased and Sixshot chanced rolling the other around to face him. The optics were still a panicked yellow that bled to red then back to yellow, aperture still wide. Frightened and in pain.

Sixshot smiled grimly under his battlemask. While he couldn't do anything to fix the Gestalt programming, the flash of red gave him hope he could _maybe_ keep him on the sanity side of the scrap pile.

"Enough. This won't solve anything!"

The only reply was a pathetically weak snarl, yet Sixshot refused to give an inch. Losing this fight meant losing Sinnertwin; _unacceptable_. If it was a selfish whim of what empathy he still retained, or a fear of being alone, Sixshot didn't know, didn't care and _refused_ to consider the second option.

Sinnertwin bucked and struggled, and Sixshot head-butted him.

The overclocked mech fell limp, and Sixshot sat up, allowing cool air into his systems as he studied Sinnertwin. The Decepticon was shivering. whimpering, vents a hollow stutter; a good sign Gestalt-links were scarring over. _Hopefully._

Primus willing, Sinnertwin would _remain_ sane, or near enough.

Sixshot stood with a wince, finally allowing damage reports to scroll across his HUD. Some were red, most were not. Most of them were superficial, but he ignored them all. Sinnertwin could give as good as he got. He picked the fallen mechaniod up, slung him over a shoulder, and headed back towards the ship.

He'd give basic repairs, then see where things went from there. If Sinnertwin _was_ irrevocably insane, then he'd have to kill him.

It would be a _mercy_ , but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This chapter is NOT pleasant._ Subjects include but are not limited to gaslighting one's self, mindfuckery, and emotional manipulation _alongside_ violence to a trauma victim. _**If you have PSTD of any kind, you are**_ _ **strongly**_ _ **advised to proceed with caution**_. I can't warn for everything and I am deeply, deeply sorry if I trigger you by accident.

Sinnertwin did not want to online. He did so anyway into a haze of confusion, pain, loss, and fear. Into a desperate, pathetically weak attempt to scramble back from the processor-shattering terror-fear- _panic_ which threatened to devour him whole. He could see it. It gaped and bled energon and the raw sparking of things that should have been there but –

Systems, cascade-coding, instinct shrieked and howled, reeling back as _panic and loss and nononononono_ punched him in the face with a force easily outmatching Hungrr's bite. Repeatedly. The pings to his brothers kept returning null-and-void with errors ranging from 100-700 errors to a slew of other errors that had him seeing sparks as his own internals malfunctioned.

He pinged each of his Gestalt.

They returned with _exactly_ the same class of errors.

_NO NO NO THEY WEREN'T GONE. **THEY COULDN'T BE**._

He let loose a scream of a roared shriek as his shattered mind reached for links no longer there, grasping at nothing but the painfully raw silent void of darkness that bled energon and sparked things that could have been warnings. Those were shunted aside, second to everything happening right now.

They were gone.

They couldn't be gone. "No-Nono **no**."

Something moved. A blot – _a blob_ because Blot was gone _gone_ _ **gone**_ of white green black that was _familiar_ yet not. Optics whirled, trying to focus. A mech stood over him, just in sight –

He only had _one_ optic, not two. One of his alt-mode heads had been damaged. The optic swivelled around, taking in everything, trying to see the mech who stood over him. His head couldn't - refused? to turn on command. It was – familiar. Greens and whites and blacks. Wings. Red optics. blastmask/faceplate/battlemask. Big. Bigger than the Lord Protector-

It – _he_ – stood over him.

Sinnertwin fought, throwing everything he had against the bonds that kept him belly up, _submissive_. Weak. _Vulnerable_. Struggles ceased and fear bloomed across his processor when a thick, very large, white hand pushed against his chest, pinning him effortlessly to the slab. As if it was needed. He _couldn't_ get free of the bonds, what –

Soft words in a familiar voice swept across his processor, but he refused to listen, shaking his head in denial (now it moved. Why didn't - oh. Motor controls were in a cascading branching failure and he - would have known that if he were Sparked but he _wasn't_. Was this what it meant to be Sparked? Learning everything over again and again?) _No. nono_ _ **nono**_ he was belly up, vulnerable. There was a hand on his chest. _Over his spark._ This was bad. So very very **_very bad_** -

The voice spoke again, firmer now. It cut through the hazy-fog-void of his processor like an energon blade. "I'm _not_ going to hurt you, Sinnertwin,"

"No!" He hissed, optics still that sickly yellow as fans and vents rattled, attempting to suck in air to cool overheated systems. His t-cog screebled in protest as it came up against very deliberate anti-transform code. _**Nonono**_! This **_wasn't_** happening to him. He –

His intakes heaved, working overtime. Systems wrote warnings in lurid rust-red, and the lone Terrorcon ignored them. Where the frag was his team. _Where the frag were they?_ He was the bottom of the pile, yes, but he was **needed**. They stuck _together._ So why was this-

 _They were not gone_. He was malfunctioning. It'd happened to Rippersnapper once. It was only a matter of time before Cutthroat was at his side with her own manner of comfort, spinning gory stories of defeated Autobots that eventually had Blot yelling at her to tell the truth. Hungrr too, because it was expected? No. They cared about each other in their own ways. _They were siblings_. They fought and slagged off against one other but they were family. A unit. Onlined and _designed_ for each other in ways _few_ understood.

(Sixshot had understood-)

They would come. They had to, and Sinnertwin refused to show any weakness to the mech above him, known or not. It would _dishonor_ what being a Terrorcon was. What a Decepticon was.

"You don't have a choice," the voice said, still soft, calm. In control. Sinnertwin hated it. Loved it. Clung with everything he had to the voice. It – a feeble, weak light in the darkness and he wanted it to grow. It – He should want to snuff it, flee from the tiny, tiny thing that was smaller than him. Smaller and smaller and terrifying, but he needed it too- The voice spoke again. "The others are gone. You're going to be with me from now on."

They were not gone. He saw them, _there_. The inky void was a lie and if he reached for them and got pain, that was _normal_ -

"Lies!" The dragon hissed, optic flickering red for a split fraction as reality cascaded into his shattered mind (that was _Sixshot_. _Sixshot_ who'd left _innermost energon_ for them all at one point or other. The same Sixshot who let them curl around him in altmode after a mission or because they wanted to, who _accepted_ them and understood the bestial instincts and dynamics, though he claimed he didn't. But **actions** , not words, spoke loudest within Decepticon ranks).

Sinnertwin screebled and the fragile fragments of his mind spun dizzyingly out of control to the point it _hurt_ to think too much. He just wanted his teammates, wanted to be in a pile of lazy Terrorcons who'd completed a mission, who were sated and content until boredom struck and they resorted to terrorising whatever base they were suck in, or _playing tag with a Phase-Sixer_ who could easily kill them all, or _rutting_ said Phase-Sixer-.

"What would I gain from lying to you?" Sixshot's hand left Sinnertwin's chest. Fans clicked over, as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. _Stupid, foolish_ ; he wasn't organic. "If you'll allow an uplink, I'll give you the report myself."

Sinnertwin couldn't curtail his manic, _broken_ laughter as he struggled against the bonds. He felt sluggish, overheated, overclocked and Sixshot was.. _odd_. A blur of metal-and-warmth-maybe-safety? yet something was missing and he _didn't_ know what –

He wanted to curl up. His processor _hurt_. "Submission. Weakness. Not giving. **Never.** "

"What choice do you have?" Sixshot leaned in and Sinnertwin was now more than ever acutely aware of his _inability to read any emissions field_. Not his own, not Sixshot's. "I could simply offline you now."

_NO-_

The hand returned, and the dragon hissed in denial. He blanched when the restraints tightened, Sixshot staring at him unrevealing, unknowable, as if a monster. Suddenly the depths of the abyss that called, oh so tauntingly and _sweetly for him_ , seemed like a _Good Choice._

Yet Sixshot was also a code-wisp. A wisp and thread and a hope he _clung_ to because if the Senior officer was there then _so was the rest of the team_ and he only had to _resist_ the call long enough to see his siblings again-

Sixshot's hand was heavier than before, vents and fans heaving now and the lurid rust-red warnings seemed brighter. Ominous.

"I could kill you _very_ easily." Claws dug into metal and Sinnertwin moaned in protest. He didn't like _pain_ -. "I fixed you, but it would be _easy_ to undo it all." Sinnertwin _knew_ he blanched fear, judging by the way the Phase-sixer's optics lit up in - in _delight_. A distant, feeble part of him knew Sixshot was _within his rights_ to murder – kill. Punish him in a fatal way. Sinnertwin was a grunt _without_ a Unit, and a potential _liability_. The Decepticons hated liabilities. If he had a Unit, he might have had a chance.

(non-adults and civilians did _not_ count as liabilities.)

_He had no Unit._

**_LIES_**. He had a Unit – he had to have Abominus- " _LIES_. **LIES.** **LIES**."

Mercifully Sixshot's fist offlined him in one blow.

Sixshot stared down at his friend-sometimes-rutting partner, vents heaving, field blaring distress. Flatline had long ago pressed himself against a wall. Sixshot's head swiveled to the medic. "Keep him offline and stable."

Or else.

"-Sir?" Flatline ventured, squealing and pressing himself back against the wall, as if Sixshot were Tarn himself looking at him.

"Need I repeat myself, _medic_?" That wasn't Flatline's official job and he knew it. He didn't care.

"No, sir. Keep him offline, and keep him stable. W-What about-"

"As long as he's offline, his mental state won't deteriorate."

Flatline nodded, optics pale energon-pink. "Yes sir."

The six-changer grunted, and made his way out the medbay. He was emotionally compromised and he didn't care. Between this and Danny's death, he was entitled to emotions. Megatron would understand. Gigatron's successor himself was compromised, even if he didn't see it. Though Sixshot really didn't feel like going against him by bringing that up.

Sixshot turned the corner towards the firing range, wishing Lockdown was within range. His Amica knew all the places to vent and didn't ask questions until the venting was done and Sixshot was on his knees, emotionally spent. But Lockdown wasn't here; the last time they'd been together had been after Danny's death and he'd invited the other to slaughter an Autobot base. His clan... Hnnn. Perhaps later.

Sixshot touched his commlinks. It paid to be the Senior Officer of a base. _"Oilslick... I need_ live _targets. Autoblock-C will do."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the first chapters of this at my proofreader's request to clarify a few things. 
> 
> Short chapter is short. Flatline's a cobbled together amalgamation of Movie and IDW, and would kindly like Sixshot to just kill the last Terrorcon already. Every other Decepticon would.

Flatline practically squealed when Sixshot’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder, field bleating a frantic, if short lived staccato of fear-panic in #sharp-sound. 

“How is he?” The six-changer asked, voice betraying his amusement, and Flatline shoved survival protocol and coding and everything else he had that was remotely related to the fore and then tripled it, internally wincing when it slammed into his processor as if a building had been toppled on him. Again. The things he did for the Decepticons. He smiled pleasantly, as if having a six-changer notorious for _mass murder_ and all sorts of _Other Nice Things_ from the Senix-clan looming over him was an everyday occurrence. 

 _Same as the last three megacycles you've asked, slagger_. He bit back the retort. He liked his spark attached, thank you very much. “Stable. I finished the damage repairs and replaced his fans.”

“With no alterations, of course.”

If that wasn’t a warning squeeze, Flatline didn’t know what it was. He knew well what Sixshot was capable of if the mood struck him. Petty violence would be the least of the scientist and experimental surgeon’s worries. “Naturally, sir. Shall I rouse him?”

“Do so.”

Flatline nodded, the hand finally left him. With an exvent, Flatline set about rebooting his so-called patient while Sixshot stood over the restrained and trapped Terrorcon. Sinnertwin was scrap if you asked Flatline. _Scrap and junk and reusable parts._ The mechanoid’s processor was gone, fragmented and beyond even the saving graces of a hardline jacked into a de-fragging system designed for _Megatron_. Sixshot was a fool, but who was _he_ to argue with a fragging Phase-Sixer? He’d sooner argue with Krok or Soundwave and come out _intact_.

(Come to think of it, he’d seen that happen and swore he’d seen them _smirking_. They both had fragged up humour out the afterburner, and both were part of Megatron’s Command-Cohort.)

He watched dispassionately as Sinnertwin’s remaining optic booted up with sickly, sickly lurid yellow colours. A speckle of red flickered across it before vanishing. It was _disturbing_ , and he counted himself thankful for the order – threat – against repairing the other optic. The best he’d done was stick a patch over it. Self-repair would take over, or not.  He reset his vocaliser, and stepped back with another pleasant smile and salute. “He’s online.”

Sixshot grunted, but didn’t dismiss the ‘medic’. He kept a sensor bead on him though, in case Flatline attempted to make an escape like last time. 

Flatline wisely busied himself with another of his projects, thanking everything he could that his assigned cadets and probationers weren’t around. He knew for a fact Crosshairs would have sooner shot Sinnertwin than treat him. Perhaps he should look into assigning the Cadet sniper-classes. It might be useful…

He literally jumped out of his frame at Sinnertwin's growl, knocking half his desk onto the floor. Oh, Joy. He was going to have to stay through _another_ round of this…?

A look at Sixshot told him the answer was a clear _Yes_.

Yay, joy. His life. He hated it. Nonetheless, he cleaned up his mess, trying, and failing, to keep from watching the shipwreck he was stuck with.

"I've heard what losing a Gestalt-mate will do to the team, but not when only one is left. What happened was unfortunate," Sixshot said, regret spiking his voice, and Flatline had not known the Phase-Sixer could feel anything like that. "But I will not allow you to die."

Sinnertwin let out a pitiful whine at the words, shaking his head in stringent denial. "Not gone. Not gone. Hungrr come.”

Sixshot cuffed the Terrorcon’s helm – Flatline hoped that didn’t leave too much of a dent to be worked out- and continued talking.  Still calm, still never raising his voice. "He will not come. You have to accept that and move on."

"You lie! Hungrr come! Cutthroat-” Sinnertwin's normally low growl of a Kaon accent broke, hitching in distress as he struggled and thrashed against the bindings. Not for the first time did Flatline shrink back towards the wall. If the Terrorcon got free –

No. He wasn't going to allow his processor to go down _that_ route, thank you very much; he had a project to continue with.

Sinnertwin attempted to bite, and Sixshot punched him outright for it. "What would I gain from lying to you? Your almost Endura’s dead."

The hysterical, broken laugh was enough to make Flatline jump, scrambling backwards into a wall in fear. He didn’t often feel that emotion, but every part of him was screaming to leave, get as far away as possible, and his tripled-amped survival protocols where telling him no. He’d end up slagged this time. Yet Sixshot was seemingly immune, thick claws digging into Sinnertwin’s chassis, gouging deep wounds across his chestplates. "You are all that is left of them. I will _not_ lie to _you_."

Flatline shuddered at the tone. Rarest of Warbuild types, yes. Possessing the full range of emotional reactions his skidplate. Sixshot was an emotionless _beast_ , and what the Terrorcons had seen in him, he didn’t know.

Sinnertwin's moan of denial was pathetic, yet he didn’t seem to fight against the hand splayed over his sparkplates. The very hand that had hurt him. Even from where he was, Flatline could see it rested deceptively light against overheated, overclocked plating. He didn’t have to be a genius to know Sixshot was hiding his EM-field, and that Sinnertwin's was… flickering with confusion and fear and pain and need.

_What the pit –_

Sixshot exvented slowly, rubbing his hand softly over the sparkplates. "I will not leave you, Sinnertwin. You belong with _me_ now. _My Unit_."

Sinnertwin’s optic flickered red for a klick or two before reverting to the sickly yellow as a terrifying growl rippled it's way from Sinnertwin's vocal-unit. It outstripped even the late Dirge's Sigma talent for fear-generation. The part of Flatline that was not purging was already starting to consider designing something like this. Put to use against the Autobots, it'd be invaluable, and if they could get 'X' - no. Scratch that. Giving it to 'X' would be handing him the keys to their destruction.

Then, Sinnertwin spoke, and Flatline felt his armour clamp down tighter than it'd ever been, his EM-field practically retracting into his very spark. " _You are not Hungrr_." 

Something in Sixshot's demeanour changed, aggression rippling off him, and Flatline realised he was going to have a front-row seat to bestial instincts driving the hierarchy and power struggle. He -

He didn't think he _wanted_ the seat he'd been given.  Maybe if he slowly edged towards the door - That sure was a bullet hole a centimeter from his helm.

He _did_ want that seat after all. 


End file.
